


When The Grief Gives Way To Anger

by deerstalker221B



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 18:55:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deerstalker221B/pseuds/deerstalker221B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He never cries anymore. But that doesn't mean he's okay. He doesn't think he'll ever be okay. But he'll work with what he's got.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When The Grief Gives Way To Anger

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the lovely [Rachel](http://ishouldntbeallowedoutinpublic.tumblr.com).

He never cries anymore. But that doesn't mean he's okay. He doesn't think he'll ever be okay. But he'll work with what he's got.  
He still visits Sherlock's grave, every Wednesday, every Saturday. But he doesn't stand by the unforgiving headstone and cry anymore. No. Instead, he talks. He tells the golden letters everything he was too afraid to say to the man himself.  


"At first," he begins one Wednesday, exactly 1,095 days after Sherlock's death, "I was heartbroken. I really was. I cried every night for the time we could no longer spend together. The years that I had planned out for us were gone, in the blink of an eye. As soon as you hit the ground, they were taken from me. Taken from us. And that broke my heart. I never pretended to understand what went on in that brilliant head of yours, but surely, surely you must have known? How could a man like you spend so long with me and not know? I won't say it. I've admitted it to myself, and admitting it to your headstone won't bring me any kind of respite from the pain I suffer daily. To have come so close, then to lose everything in less time that it took to draw a breath and scream your name- If you were still here, if you hadn't left me behind, I'd tell you. I should have known you would leave me behind. Me, the clumsy army doctor with a dodgy shoulder and a psychosomatic limp, you, such an elegant creature, so curious, so brilliant. I should have known it was only a matter of time. But I didn't see you leaving me like this. Never like this. I saw you growing bored of me, I saw you growing distant. I never pictured you leaving me in a casket. If you were still here, I'd say those three words to you every morning, every night, and as many times as I could in between. And to hell with the consequences. If you were still here, you wouldn't have to reciprocate, I wouldn't expect you to. But I would tell you all the same. I would whisper it before we went to bed, I would scream it out the window. But you're not here, and as I stood at the foot of St Bart's, it didn't seem appropriate to tell you.  


"I don't mean to say that I'm not heartbroken anymore. I am, oh believe me. But the grief isn't the only thing that lingers. You may be gone, but the memories I have of you remain, stubbornly, in my head. It seems fitting that my memories of you are as stubborn as you were. So, while I was still heartbroken, and I mourned your loss with all my heart, my grief gave way. But it gave way to anger. Despite all else I feel for you, I became angry at you. For leaving. For hurting me. But what I was most angry about was that you dared lie to me moments before you died. You told me you were a fake. How could you? How could you let our last conversation be based on a lie? I'm not one for blind faith, you know that. But I had, and still have, unwavering faith in you.  


"You asked me once why I didn't believe in God, although the rest of my family were devout. Do you remember what I told you? I told you that I couldn't believe in something without proof. Proof, Sherlock. That's what is most important to me. And every word you said, every deduction you made, for me, that was concrete proof. Proof that you were more than just a man. Proof that you were worth believing in. So how dare you try to rob me of my faith in you?  


"So I'm still angry with you, though it will do little good now. I'm angry at you for going where I can't follow you. Because I always have, haven't I? The good little soldier, I followed you everywhere. And I would never have changed that. I would have happily followed you for the rest of time. But this- you had to go the one place I couldn't follow. Though I can't say I haven't considered it, once or twice, when the loneliness gets the better of me.  
"That's sort of why I'm here. I met this girl a few months ago. Elizabeth, her name is. She's lovely. She really is. And I have a chance to make something with her. She loves me. So I guess I'm sort of here to seek your blessing. To ask your permission, I suppose. For years, my heart has been yours, and it didn't seem right to give it to someone else without your permission. I know you can't actually give me your blessing. I'm not waiting for a sign from above, or a velvety voice to reply. I'm not that deluded. I just... I don't even know. I suppose I came just to let you know. I'll be honest, I don't think she will ever fill this Sherlock-shaped hole in my heart, but she's willing to give it a good go. Between you and me, if I had only one wish, it would be that I had you to patch me back up, to sew my heart back together. But I can't have that, can I? Sherlock Holmes is a law unto himself, woe betide anyone who dares make plans around him.  


"It's exactly three years since you jumped. Three years. Has it passed quickly for you? Because it's been agonisingly slow for me. I'll do what I usually do on the anniversary of your death: Angelo makes me your favourite meal and I sit by the window deducing things about the people that walk past. I've gotten pretty good at it. Sometimes I like to think that I'm a part of your legacy. You know, you passed on your skills to me and now I'm the only part of Sherlock Holmes left in the world. But then I realise how self-indulgent that is. It's silly, but it lets me hold what's left of you close to me for one night a year.  


"Goodbye, my love." he whispers. "I still believe in you, Sherlock Holmes. Even after all this time."  
And with that, he turns and walks from the cemetery.  
  


From his cover beneath the trees, Sherlock Holmes fights to stifle the sob that threatens to burst from his chest.  
  


"I'm coming back to you, John Watson. I don't know how, but I'm coming back."


End file.
